The scent of rain-washed concrete and jasmine drifted through Jenna’s open bedroom window, a perfume she’d come to associate with summer evenings and with him. She leaned against the sill, her gaze fixed on the house next door. The light in the upstairs corner room was on, casting a warm, honeyed glow onto the manicured lawn. That was Ethan’s room. It had been for the sixteen years she’d lived in this house, and for the better part of those sixteen years, she’d been watching it.
It was a habit now, a secret ritual. She’d watch him leave for work in his crisp button-downs, his dark hair always slightly mussed, a leather satchel slung over one broad shoulder. She’d watch him get his mail, laughing at something on his phone, the sound a low rumble she could almost feel through the walls. She’d watch him on his patio, grilling on summer nights, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he turned the meat, a beer bottle condensation dripping onto the stones.
Tonight, he was just sitting on his bed, a book in his hands. He wore a simple white t-shirt and grey sweatpants, the uniform of his wind-down hours. His brow was furrowed in concentration, a single crease between his dark eyes that she wanted to smooth with her thumb. He was beautiful in a way that was almost painful to witness. It was a crush, yes, but one that had metastasized into something deeper, a chronic ache that had become a part of her.
Jenna was twenty-five, a graphic designer who worked from home, which meant her world had shrunk to the four walls of her apartment and, by extension, the view into his. Her own relationships had been few and ultimately forgettable, always ending with the same confession in her head: *He’s not Ethan.* She knew his schedule better than her own. She knew he was an architect, that he drove a vintage Jeep, that his mother called every Sunday, and that he had a weakness for those ridiculously overpriced artisan donuts from the shop downtown.
A sharp knock at her front door made her jump. Her heart hammered against her ribs as a wild, impossible idea sparked. She peeked out her own window, but the angle was wrong. She couldn't see who it was. She padded to the door, her bare feet cool on the hardwood, and peered through the peephole.
There he was. Ethan.
He was standing on her small porch, closer than she’d ever been to him outside of a casual wave. Her breath caught. He looked slightly different, more real. She could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his t-shirt clung to the defined muscles of his chest. He was holding a small white box. He knocked again.
Jenna’s hand trembled as she unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open. The night air, thick with the smell of damp earth, rushed in, carrying his scent to her—clean soap, a hint of sandalwood, and the lingering trace of rain.
"Hi," he said, his voice a low, easy baritone that sent a shiver down her spine. "Sorry to bother you so late. I'm Ethan. From next door." He gestured with his head towards his house, a sheepish smile playing on his lips.
Jenna felt a flush creep up her neck. "I know who you are," she said, her voice coming out a little breathier than she intended. "I'm Jenna."
"Jenna," he repeated, the sound of her name on his lips making her knees feel weak. "I was going to make a late dinner and realized I'm out of olive oil. I saw your light on and thought I'd risk it. I brought a peace offering." He held up the box. "Donuts from Crisp & Crust. The maple bacon ones are the best."
She stared at the box, then back at him. He’d bought her donuts. He knew her favorite shop. Had he seen her there? The thought was dizzying. "You know my favorite donuts?"
His smile widened, a flash of white teeth. "I've seen you in there on Saturday mornings. You always get the maple bacon and a black coffee."
She was stunned into silence. He’d been watching her, too. All this time, her secret observation hadn't been one-sided. The air crackled with unspoken tension. "That's… very observant," she finally managed.
"I'm an architect. I notice details." He held the box out a little more. "So, the olive oil?"
Jenna blinked, her brain short-circuiting. "Oh. Right." She stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come in. I think I have some."
He crossed the threshold, and the space suddenly felt impossibly small and electric. He was even bigger up close, the breadth of his shoulders seeming to fill her entryway. She closed the door behind him, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet house. She led him into her small, galley kitchen. He placed the donut box on the counter while she opened a cabinet, her fingers brushing against the cold glass bottles.
"Here you go," she said, handing him the half-full bottle of olive oil.
His fingers brushed hers as he took it. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated heat straight through her. His eyes met hers, dark and intense, holding her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks," he murmured.
"You should… stay," she blurted out, shocking herself. "For a donut. I mean, you brought them, we should probably eat them. I have coffee."
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. "I'd like that."
He stayed.
They sat on her small sofa, the donut box between them, their knees almost touching. The conversation was surprisingly easy, flowing from donuts to work to the neighbor who had the world's loudest leaf blower. He told her about a building he was designing, his hands moving as he described the flow of light through a glass atrium. She told him about a logo she'd been struggling with, and he listened with an intense focus that made her feel like the most interesting person in the world.
As the hour grew later, the conversation lulled. The silence was heavy, charged with the unspoken years of wanting. He was leaning back against the cushions, his arm stretched along the back of the sofa, his fingertips a whisper away from her shoulder.
"Jenna," he said, his voice low.
She turned to face him. "Yes?"
"I've been wanting to do this for a long time." He leaned in, his hand moving from the back of the sofa to cup her cheek. His thumb traced her jawline, a touch so gentle it ached. His eyes searched hers, asking for permission.
She gave it with a whispered, "Yes."
His lips met hers. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, a question. It was the taste of coffee and sugar and sixteen years of unrequited longing. It was hesitant, exploring, learning the shape of each other's mouths. But then he deepened it, his hand tangling in her hair, pulling her closer. The taste of him was intoxicating—spicy and male. Her hands came up to grip the front of his t-shirt, the fabric soft and warm from his body.
A low growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, his breathing ragged. "I've wanted that since I saw you moving in, in that ridiculous yellow sundress," he confessed, his voice thick.
"You noticed that?" she breathed.
"I noticed everything." He claimed her lips again, this time with more urgency. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she met him stroke for stroke, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. She’d imagined this a thousand times, but the reality was infinitely better. His scent, his taste, the way his hands moved over her body with a possessive reverence.
He pulled back, his dark eyes blazing. "Jenna, I don't want to stop. Are you okay with this?" he asked, his voice a low rasp.
"Don't stop," she commanded, her voice shaky.
He stood, pulling her up with him. In one fluid motion, he lifted her, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. He carried her down the hall, his mouth never leaving hers. He knew where the bedroom was, and the thought that he’d noticed that detail too sent a wave of hot pleasure through her.
He laid her on the bed, his body covering hers, his weight a thrilling pressure. He looked down at her, his gaze raking over her, making her feel naked even though she was still clothed. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice full of awe.
He kissed her neck, a trail of fire down to her collarbone, while his hands worked the hem of her tank top. He pulled it up, and she raised her arms, letting him strip it from her. His eyes fell to her breasts, encased in a simple black lace bra. He let out a shaky breath and lowered his head, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses over the lace. The sensation was exquisite, the friction of the fabric against her tender nipples making her gasp.
He unhooked her bra with a practiced flick, freeing her breasts. His mouth closed over one peak, his tongue swirling around the hard nub before sucking gently. Jenna arched her back, a sharp cry escaping her lips. He lavished attention on her other breast, his hand kneading the first, rolling the nipple between his fingers.
She was on fire, her skin hyper-sensitive to every touch. She reached down, fisting her hand in his t-shirt. "I want to feel you," she gasped.
He sat up, hauling the shirt over his head. The sight of him made her mouth water. His chest was broad and defined, a light dusting of dark hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants. He was beautiful, sculpted like the buildings he designed.
She reached out, her fingers tracing the contours of his pectorals, the hard planes of his stomach. He flinched, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Your hands are killing me," he said, his eyes dark with lust.
He made quick work of her shorts and panties, tossing them aside with the rest of her clothes. Now she was laid bare before him, and his gaze was a physical caress. He knelt between her legs, his hands smoothing up her thighs. "God, Jenna," he breathed, his voice reverent.
He lowered his head, and his tongue found her slick, wet heat. She cried out, her hands fisting in the sheets as he teased her, licking and sucking with a skill that bordered on cruel. He found her clit and paid it relentless attention, circling it with his tongue before drawing it into his mouth. The pressure built, coiling tight in her belly. Her hips bucked against his mouth, but he held her steady, driving her higher and higher. The wave crested and crashed, a violent, shattering orgasm that pulsed through her entire body. She cried out his name as he lapped up her release, slowing down only when her trembling subsided.
He crawled up her body, his kiss tasting of her. "You're incredible," he whispered against her lips.
"Now you," she pleaded, her hands going to the waistband of his sweatpants.
He helped her shove them down, along with his boxers. His cock sprung free, hard and thick, straining towards her. She wrapped her hand around him, marveling at the heat and steel of his length. He hissed, his eyes squeezing
